All his best poems were kept in a fridge on ice
stacked with the beer and other perishables
a lot well past their sell by date and unfit
for recitations and sometimes he would read them anyway
and open a bottle
I was the only audience member
In his drunken stupor he would weep
sobbing only him and Van Gogh knew what it was to suffer for their art
it always ended in violence and me begging him not to cut his ear off
wasn't it better to write another poem I would say
One man's meat is another man's poison
then he would drop the knife
write another poem
drink another beer
in his drunken stupor his recitation took on a life of its own
he would cry out that he painted with his words and free spirits
were tortured souls though the world would never know his greatness
His poems were past their sell by date
I told him he was a Genius
YOU ARE READING
Weird Reads
PuisiPoems & Prose to read when your coffee is on the brew. A mixture of the light and dark in life. Strange writing from the pen of a weird mind. Caution advised before reading.
